The Gordian Knot

  Don’t try dodging the issues, weigh the situation! Why is Benton coming here? What does he think I’m doing with the negatives in San Francisco? Does he suspect that I got in touch with Gorgefield Aircraft? He’s not coming here to talk. He could do that on the phone, or at least try. I doubt he’s coming to talk to Gorgefield, either. He could do that on the phone too. Perhaps he did talk to him and didn’t like what he heard. Is he coming here because of Jill? That’s a stupid question. Even if Jill or Fran were important to him, he knows I wouldn’t do anything to the baby. I doubt that even Fran sees me as a tiger, but Benton sized me up as a paper tiger right from the start.

  No, that’s not true. Though Benton knows I don’t have it in me to be violent, I did corner him, identify him as a Polish or Russian secret agent, and, when that turned out not to be the case, I changed course and am now about to corner him again. He knows that—even if he doesn’t know exactly what I’m doing and planning. He’s scared. Particularly if he is planning to do business with the Russians.

  What would I do in his position?

  Georg got up slowly, went back into the big room that he thought of as Jonathan’s studio, and looked for the cigarettes. He lit one and sucked in the smoke. He waited for it to rasp down his throat and chest, and it did. He sucked in another mouthful of smoke. He stood unseeing before Jonathan’s paintings.

  Benton wants to kill me.

  He has nothing to lose and everything to gain. He might not have been pleased with the article in the Times, but if you think about it, both the article and the statements of those two officers, and the fact that I’ve abducted Jill, will help him create a scenario in which killing me could appear as a heroic act—or at least as necessary. And whatever damage I’ve done to Benton with Gorgefield Aircraft, any damage control on his part would be easier if I were dead. He doesn’t want me alive and talking.

  What am I going to do about this?

  Run? Will I manage to get out of the United States? And wouldn’t Benton track me down, even in Cucuron or Karlsruhe?

  Georg studied the cigarette, which he was holding between the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand. The smoke slid down the cigarette and rose in quick arabesques. Pall Mall. In hoc signo vinces. Two lions bearing a coat of arms. Georg laughed.

  What about Fran? Fran, whom I love—don’t ask me why. Fran, whom I want to be with even if it’ll mean loneliness. Fran, whom I’ve begun to love even more through Jill, as if I weren’t enough in love already. What will become of Fran and me if I run away?

  Georg went to Jonathan’s desk, took out the pistol, and weighed it in his hand. Cut through the Gordian knot? I don’t even know how to load this thing or shoot it. You pull the trigger. Do I hold my shooting hand with the other one? Do I aim with the sights or rely on instinct? And isn’t there such a thing as a safety catch?

  Jonathan’s bedroom door opened.

  “Hi, Georg,” Fern said, walking sleepily to the bathroom. Luckily she hadn’t seen the pistol.

  The day was beginning. The toilet flushed, and Fern came out of the bathroom. She got some coffee for herself and Jonathan. Jonathan showered. Georg showered. Jill screamed. Fern mixed some powdered milk, warmed it up, and gave it to Jill. Jonathan fried eggs and bacon, and they had breakfast. Georg felt as if he were experiencing these everyday joys for the last time: The bitter coffee, the hot stream of water on his body in the shower, the taste of the eggs and bacon, the coziness with which one talked about little everyday necessities. After breakfast, Georg for the first time put on the baby sling that Fran had packed for him, put Jill in it, and went for a walk.

  Benton wants to kill me, he thought again.

  Georg walked up the hill and showed Jill the buildings of the city, the highways, the bridges, and the bay. She fell asleep.

  How can I tell Fern and Jonathan that this afternoon two men will come by to collect Jill? “By the way, Fern, there’ll be these two guys knocking on your door, they’ll be looking for Jill. They might even kick your door in, or threaten you and Jonathan, or pretend they are policemen: but just give them Jill, and don’t worry about it. And thanks for looking after us, here’s some money, bye.”

  Georg made his way back. What he did next he could not explain then or later, nor could he point to the thought or feeling that made him take that course of action. There was no sudden click in his mind. As he walked, he had been weighing how best to prepare Jonathan and Fern for Joe’s visit, what he should leave behind for Jill and Joe, where he should drop his rental car, how he would get to the Greyhound bus station. He had even begun to fantasize about his journey to nowhere. But back at the house, he did none of those things. His hands and legs didn’t do it, nor did his head—not that they refused to go along; refusal presupposes some form of resistance, and here there was no resistance. Georg simply went another way, things simply went another way.

  As all smokers know, you can have stopped smoking for two years, left all symptoms of withdrawal behind, only rarely think of a cigarette, enjoy your existence and identity as a nonsmoker; but one day the nonsmoker smoker is sitting at his desk or on a park bench or in an airport lounge, and with no obvious reason, without being particularly stressed or particularly relaxed, gets up, walks over to a cigarette machine, buys a pack, and begins smoking again. Just like that. Relationships can begin or end this way too. It is the same principle with which one carefully studies a menu and decides on a filet of sole but orders tournedos.

  Georg called Pan Am and asked when the first plane from New York was due to land. At ten o’clock. That gave him just two hours. He called the Gorgefield office and asked for Buchanan.

  “Mr. Buchanan? My cousin came to see you the day before yesterday. I take it you know what this is in reference to?” Georg said, trying hard to imitate an East German accent, which, though it didn’t sound authentic, was strange enough to pass.

  “Well I’ll be damned.…”

  “I have a meeting set up at the San Francisco airport this morning,” Georg said. “The seller is arriving at ten o’clock on the Pan Am flight from New York. Bring the police with you, as I’m being followed and will need protection.” Georg hung up, and then called the Westin St. Francis Hotel and asked for room 612. The phone rang a long time, and while he waited he divided 612 into 2 times 2 times 3 times 3 times 17.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning,” Georg said. “Did I wake you?”

  “If I were still asleep at such an hour, it would be fitting for me to be woken up.”

  “Did you manage to find out more about the other seller?”

  “I still haven’t managed …”

  “But I have. And you can have the negatives for two million. I don’t know how much money you brought with you and in what denominations, but I would like you to place two million in small bills in a briefcase and to be at the airport at ten o’clock, at the Central Terminal, Departures. I’ll give you the films and leave.”

  46

  THE CENTRAL TERMINAL LIES above a two-story oval of roads into which the highways feed at the other end. The lower level is for arrivals, the upper for departures. On the lower level, only the front lobby is open to the public at large; beyond automatic sliding doors is a restricted customs area for arrivals. On the upper level, one can go all the way to where the wide terminal corridor begins, where the airplane gates are located. One can look through a glass wall down into the customs area.

  Georg had set out immediately after making the phone calls. He found a parking spot near the entrance, and walked up and down the Central Terminal until he knew it well. From upstairs, I can see Joe first. But because he’s coming from New York, he won’t have to go through customs, and will pass through the hall quite quickly. He’ll come through the arrivals door, won’t stop at the cordoned-off area where people are waiting for passengers, but will turn either to the right, where the conveyor belts bring out the luggage, or head for the taxi stand or one of the car-rental desks. If the flight
is on time, he’ll be out by five past ten at the earliest, or a quarter past at the latest. So from the upper level I’ll be able to see him first. The professor will be upstairs too, since I told him I was leaving. Buchanan will be waiting downstairs by the arrivals. I won’t need more than a minute to go up and down between the two levels. From the upper level, where there’s a view of the arrivals hall, there’s no view of the area outside the sliding door, nor can anyone see the upper level from there.

  Georg stood by the red ropes outside the arrivals area and looked up. Through a small atrium he could see the bays of a glass dome. The upper level rests on thick columns. A dome, columns—Georg smiled and thought, I see I can’t get away from cathedrals. His smile was one of resignation. The professor would enjoy the “ifs” and “thens” of what I’ve set up here. If Joe wants to kill me, it’s because I could be dangerous for him with Gorgefield Aircraft and perhaps even with the Russians. But if he sees that the cat is out of the bag, he’ll have his hands full trying to deal with both the cat and the bag, and won’t have time to focus on me. Then I’ll come out of all this unscathed. Joe will be angry, but he won’t kill me because he’s angry.

  That was Georg’s plan: he would show himself with the professor upstairs so that Joe would see both of them when he came through the arrivals hall. Then Georg and the professor would proceed to the escalator leading to the lower level. And when Joe came out of the arrivals hall and saw Buchanan, Georg would throw from the escalator the fourteen film cans at their feet. He would let the professor continue down the stairs, while he would sprint back up the escalator and disappear. Joe, the professor, Buchanan, and the police could then deal with one another as they pleased.

  Buchanan arrived at ten to ten. He arrived with two men who had the powerful build and expressionless faces typical of policemen and gangsters. Georg saw them from the top of the escalator. Buchanan said something to the two men and they disappeared behind the columns, while he went to stand by the red rope with all the people waiting for arriving passengers. From time to time he looked about discreetly.

  The professor arrived at five to ten. He had the same careful tread, the same blue suit and striped shirt, but no tie. He was holding a briefcase in his hand.

  “Are you taking the ten-twenty Pan Am flight to London?” he asked.

  Georg shrugged his shoulders. “Come with me, I want to show you something,” he said, nodding his head toward the glass wall above the customs area.

  “Where are the goods?”

  As he walked, Georg put his hands in his jacket pockets and pulled out some of the cans. He was walking fast. The monitor showed that the Pan Am flight had arrived.

  Joe had the redhead with him. That’s not surprising, Georg thought; after all, he knows me quite well. The redhead was carrying two bags. Joe was talking and gesticulating—a corpulent mass of affability.

  “Do you know him?” Georg asked, nudging the professor and pointing at Joe. He didn’t wait for an answer. He beat his fists against the glass wall. That action in itself might not have caught Joe’s attention and made him look up, but the glass was secured, and a grating alarm went off. All heads in the area below looked up. Georg saw the surprise in Joe’s face.

  “What are you doing?” the professor asked, grabbing Georg’s arm.

  “Come on!” Georg shouted and, seizing the professor by the hand, began running, pushing, dodging people, and jumping over luggage, dragging the professor behind him. They reached the escalator and began to descend. He let go of the professor, who was gasping and cursing, and reached for the cans of film in his pockets. Buchanan came into sight, as did the door to the hall.

  Georg’s actions had not aroused any suspicions. A man bangs his hand against the glass wall, setting off a false alarm, and then runs with another man to the escalator. The two men running could be father and son, late and frantically making their way through the crowd. Nothing unusual in that.

  It all happened in a flash. The glass door slid open, Joe came out of the arrivals area, Georg threw the cans. His aim was good: a few of them hit Joe, the others landed close by him. Joe looked at the cans, and then in the direction from which they had been flung.

  The bullet hit Joe in the forehead. Georg saw him fall, saw Buchanan turn and aim again. So it’s with both hands, Georg thought, you shoot with both hands. He saw Buchanan’s face, his eyes, his tight lips, the gun’s muzzle. He wanted to duck, but the shot rang out.

  People screamed and ran for cover. Buchanan shouted something, Georg couldn’t hear what. The professor, who had been standing above him on the escalator, fell onto him and slid down, collapsing onto a woman who was cowering next to Georg. Georg heard the rasping horror of her shrieks close to his ear.

  Then he saw the briefcase, which had slipped out of the professor’s hand. The escalator came to a halt. Georg automatically reached for the briefcase and scurried doggedly, hunched forward, up the escalator. He stepped on hands, pushed people out of the way, and at the top of the escalator elbowed his way through the crowd that had gathered to see what was going on downstairs. All these people had been near the atrium and heard the shots and screams. Those who were farther back hadn’t noticed anything, and Georg casually walked past them and out of the building.

  He drove back to San Francisco. He parked at the end of Twenty-fourth Street, took the briefcase out of the car, and slowly walked to a bench near the waterfront. He sat down and put the briefcase at his feet. It was low tide, and rocks, car tires, and a refrigerator were looming out of the water.

  He sat there for a long time, watching the sun’s rays dancing on the waves. His mind was empty. Of course, he finally looked into the briefcase. And later, as Jill was asleep next to him, he turned on a table lamp and opened the briefcase again. It didn’t contain two million. It didn’t even contain one. He counted $382,460. There was a disarray of hundred-dollar bills mixed in with fifties and twenties, and between them the tie with the garden gnomes, tied and ready to be slipped on.

  The following day all the newspapers featured the shooting at the airport. Georg read that Townsend Enterprises had been involved in industrial espionage for the Russians at Gorgefield Aircraft, and that Benton and a Russian agent had fallen into a trap set by Gorgefield Aircraft. Benton had attempted to shoot his way out, and had been shot dead by Buchanan. The Russian agent had been hospitalized, critically wounded. There was a picture of Richard D. Buchanan Jr., security adviser at Gorgefield, looking grim.

  Georg read the newspaper the following morning at the airport. He was wearing sunglasses, and Jill was in the carrier sling. Nobody was paying particular attention. It was shortly before ten. The Pan Am flight from New York was scheduled to land soon. Fran had said that she would pick up Jill and take the one-thirty flight back to New York.

  “Come and stay forever,” Georg had told her.

  She had laughed, but then had asked him what the weather was like. “Does it get cool there in the evenings?”

  Epilogue

  THEY DROVE SOUTH AND TOOK A FLIGHT from Mexico to Madrid, and from Madrid to Lisbon. Today they live in a house by the sea. Jill is five, and Fran sometimes tells her a bedtime story about a crazy guy who once upon a time ran off to San Francisco with her when she was a baby. They have two more children. Georg is translating again, because he couldn’t go on doing nothing.

  “Why didn’t you write your story yourself?” I asked Georg, as we were sitting beneath the stars on his terrace above the sea. He had read my manuscript and was quibbling over this or that detail.

  “Fran didn’t want me to. This might sound strange, but since San Francisco we never talk about any of this. Fran won’t have it.” Georg laughed. “Whenever I bring up the subject she dismisses it as water under the bridge, and says she doesn’t want me to spend weeks on end at my desk mulling over the past.”

  Georg poured more wine, Alvarinho from Monçäo, light on the palate but it goes straight to your head. He leaned back. By now he was almost ent
irely bald; the wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth had turned into deep furrows, and the groove in his chin had become more pronounced. But he had a healthy complexion, and seemed relaxed and content.

  “You know,” he said, “I’ve come to realize that Fran is right. When I read your manuscript, everything was so distant, a faraway echo; you don’t know whether it was your voice or someone else’s. It’s like when someone finds an old photograph of his father, who died young, and knows perfectly well that it’s his father, even though he barely remembers him. When I told you about my final weeks in New York and San Francisco and you came up with the idea of turning it into a book, I was pleased. I thought that if I read what you had written I’d see things more clearly, that I’d see a structure and a pattern where I could … oh, I don’t know. I was a real mess back then. But I guess it’s true that we can never see clearly what we are doing or what happens to us, we can’t even hold on to it. Sooner or later it ends up as water under the bridge—so I guess the sooner that happens, the better.”

  The summer after Georg’s return from America, I was sitting at my desk in my apartment in the Amselgasse one evening when the downstairs bell rang. I wasn’t expecting anybody, but buzzed whoever it was in. In our age of telephones, unexpected guests are rare. I looked down the stairwell, but recognized neither the hand that was groping its way up the banister nor the sound of his tread. When he came into sight on the landing below, I was quite relieved: after my visit to Cucuron in September I hadn’t heard from Georg, except for a brief phone call from New York asking me urgently to send him some money. Not to mention that Jürgen had opened the sealed envelope Georg had sent him and had read to me Georg’s predicament in New York, and I was afraid for his safety. His parents had no information about his whereabouts, he hadn’t contacted the Epps again, nor had he been in touch with Larry or Helen, whose addresses the Epps had given me.